


proxy

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Belly Bulge Kink, Blood and Injury, Bottom Will Graham, Creampie, Dark Will Graham, Established Relationship, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Overstimulation, Sadism, Scarification, Sex Magic, Sexual Violence, Size Kink, Stitches, Top Hannibal Lecter, Violence, Voodoo doll, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: The back seam has been opened. Hannibal stuffs the lock of hair inside and sews it back up, knotting the thread and snipping it with the same scissors.He sets the doll down, upright, staring blankly at them with flat black eyes, made of plastic beads. It has no other features, no mouth or nose, no fingers; simplistic in design, lacking flare. The only other detail is the thatch of yarn creating a tangle of hair on top of its head.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 44
Kudos: 371





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He has scissors in his hand. Small, meant to trim thread or prune facial hair. He slides his free hand through soft brown curls, cupping Will's skull, and kisses his forehead as he finds a single lock hidden in the mass, fits the scissors around it, and snips it free.

Will shivers, wetting his lips, eyes black and wide as Hannibal pulls back. He sets the scissors down, and, with tender and loving care, wraps the lock of Will's hair in a tiny red ribbon, so that the strands don't come apart and fall. Will watches with a fevered mix of apprehension and anticipation, lips parted in a soundless gasp, as Hannibal returns to the little table by his chair, set up so that he has a full view of Will and the end of his bed.

He sits, and takes the doll in hand. It's small, of course, no more than ten inches from head to toe, the limbs stuffed thick enough to give a small ability to be posed, but the insides soft to allow it to be squeezed. There is a single plastic piece running up the doll's back, like a spine, joining with the skull-shape over which the fabric of its face is stretched. It has no features except for its eyes.

The back seam has been opened. Hannibal stuffs the lock of hair inside and sews it back up, knotting the thread and snipping it with the same scissors.

He sets the doll down, upright, staring blankly at them with flat black eyes, made of plastic beads. It has no other features, no mouth or nose, no fingers; simplistic in design, lacking flare. The only other detail is the thatch of yarn creating a tangle of hair on top of its head.

He stands, and approaches Will. Will's eyes are on the doll, his gaze black as its own, but he jerks to attention and looks up when Hannibal touches his chin.

Hannibal smiles, and leans down to kiss his forehead again. He pulls Will to his feet, undressing him with lingering touches; soft brushes of the backs of his knuckles down Will's face, his shoulders, his skinny flanks that heave into his hand like the plaintive touch of an animal. Will shivers and flushes for him, turning pink wherever Hannibal touches him.

Hannibal kneels, pulling the bunch of his jeans and underwear from his ankles, and folds them carefully, setting them to one side. Will's shirt joins the pile, so that he is now naked, a small tremor in his hands the only giveaway to his anxiety.

That, and his scent. It is sweet with fever, the first damp beads of sweat clinging below his hairline. Hannibal pushes his nose against Will's temple and breathes him in, hand flat on the back of Will's neck to hold him steady.

He kisses Will's cheek and Will bites his lower lip, eyes closing in a slow blink. When Hannibal releases him, Will sits on the edge of the bed, and his eyes open again and fixate on the doll.

Hannibal smiles. He goes back to his chair and takes the doll in hand, sitting down with it gently cradled in his palms. Will blinks, blinks again, his breathing turning slow and robotically steady, like he's tied to a machine and it's the only thing keeping his lungs going. His pupils have grown to overtake his entire iris – it makes him look alien. Drugged.

Hannibal smiles, and brushes his thumb across the doll's face, where a mouth would be if it was a little more realistic. Will's lips part and Hannibal blinks down at the doll, surprised to feel the answering warmth of an exhale, a dampness against the pad of his thumb.

"Interesting," he murmurs.

Will swallows loudly, drawing his attention again. He's trembling in earnest, now, pebbling with cold, but there's a flush on his flanks, much too large to be normal hands, but set in the shape of fingers. It mimics how Hannibal is holding the doll.

Hannibal smiles. "The effects are faster than I predicted."

Will doesn't say anything. Can only stare. Hannibal tilts his head curiously, wraps one of the threads of the doll's hair around his finger, and gives it a light tug.

Will winces, hissing, head jerking to one side as an invisible force tugs on his hair. He doesn't move, otherwise; his legs are sprawled apart, his hands in his lap in mimic of the doll's position. His breathing has grown ragged, but remains just as steady. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

Hannibal hums. "Too rough?"

Will doesn't answer, but a whimper claws its way free from his chest. Hannibal tilts his head. "Can you speak, darling?"

Will shivers, and says nothing. A single tear escapes and rolls down his cheek.

"Pity," Hannibal murmurs lightly. "You shall have to describe in detail what you're feeling, when this is over."

With a touch of amusement, he taps the top of the doll's head, making its head rock back and forth in a nod. He watches as Will's head bobs in answer, and huffs a small laugh. The amount of trust in this experiment, the amount of trust in _him_ , is all the more potent and delicious, knowing Will cannot speak. Cannot cry out or ask him to stop.

A perfect, living, breathing doll, for Hannibal to use as he sees fit.

He carefully sets the doll in his lap, watching as Will flattens to the bed, his shaking thighs parting as Hannibal bids the doll move, his arms thrown out wide to either side of him. Hannibal tuts – that simply won't do. Will is capable of wrenching his features into such exquisite expression, and can say so much with just his eyes. From Hannibal's position, he cannot see them.

He stands, and sets the doll down, Will collapsed in a haphazard sprawl as he approaches and bodily lifts Will from the bed. He sets him down on the accent rug instead, and smiles when Will stares up at him with wide, black, teary eyes. He kneels down and kisses Will's forehead, petting through his hair, and returns to his station.

"Much better," he purrs, and Will's lungs rattle with a sob.

Hannibal smiles, and sets the doll in his lap again, spreading out its limbs and watching as Will helplessly flings his own out in answer. His fingers are curled into fists, his jaw clenched, tendons in his throat standing out starkly as he tries to breathe.

Tears run in two trails down the side of his face, gathering in his ears and his hair. Hannibal closes his eyes, breathes it in deeply, a low rumble of pleasure settled in his chest at the sight of Will so helpless. So trusting and weak.

He turns the doll's head, watching as Will's rolls as well, so that he can look into Will's eyes. See the panic and, inevitably, pain when it comes. He smiles, and reaches to the table again, taking the scissors, needle, and thread.

He threads the needle with a new color – red, so that it will stand out on the doll's pale fabric. And, he considers absently, Will's. Red is such a lovely color on Will; the pink of his flushed cheeks, the stain of it on his evenly moving chest.

At first, he merely teases the tip of the needle along the doll. Around its neck, first, watching raptly as a tiny line rises down Will's throat, mimicking the journey of his carotid. He taps, lightly, at the center of the doll's throat, and Will winces, hissing through his teeth. A single bead of blood wells in the hollow of his throat, pooling between his collarbones.

Hannibal drags the needle down further, until he reaches the doll's arm. He threads the needle beneath the fabric and Will's hand twitches, fingers spreading out limp. Hannibal purses his lips, absently humming as he puts the needle through, gathers it on the other side of his little stitch and pulls the thread taut.

Will's hand flexes, blood welling up between the knuckle of his middle and ring finger. Another bead begins from the center of his palm. Hannibal's head tilts, and he does it again, watching as a mirroring set of pinpricks start between Will's middle and forefinger, and his palm again. Around his middle finger is a thin red string to match Hannibal's single stitch.

"Fascinating," he whispers. Will can only stare at him.

Hannibal begins, then, to meticulously and carefully stitch a pattern up the doll's arm. It is simple, merely a design of crosshatching in a lattice up its arm. It seems proportionate – Hannibal puts a grid of six by six of even crosses on the doll's forearm, and Will's gains the same; thread, patterned like a chain link fence across the inside of his arm. Hannibal kept the stitches shallow, and there are beads of blood around every entry and exit wound, dripping between the squares like rain on a window.

Curious, he lifts the doll and licks up its arm, and tastes blood on it. Will whimpers, fingers clenching and lashes fluttering as his arm flexes with sensation.

Hannibal cuts the thread, first experiment done. He takes the scissors in hand and Will's eyes go wide.

He smiles, and opens the scissors, holding them in a careful grip. He spreads the doll's legs out wide, and gently presses the edge of one blade on the inside of its thigh. Will whines, shuddering as a thin line opens on his pale, exposed muscle. Blood wells up again, dripping down onto the rug.

Hannibal's smile grows wide and wolfish. He changes the angle of the scissors and cuts again. And again. Slowly, he carves the letters onto Will's thigh, and Will is sobbing openly now, pain whitening his knuckles and making his jaw clench.

Hannibal looks up from the doll, and lets out a rough, pleased sound as he looks at Will. At his bloody arm. At the large, ragged 'HANNIBAL' carved into his thigh. Still, Will cannot move, cannot speak – can only stare at him like a statue, if a statue could weep. He looks so beautiful when he cries.

Hannibal wets his lips, absently petting over the doll's face as he looks Will over. Will swallows, breathing hard but still even, lips parting when Hannibal pushes his thumb against the section of the doll he could have given a mouth. Another puff of warm, wet air hits his thumb, and Hannibal tilts his head curiously.

He sets the needle, thread, and scissors down, and drags his fingers between the doll's legs. Will gasps, eyes widening, his cock twitching where it lays half-hard against his stomach. Hannibal does it again. The doll is flat, here, no hint of any sex organs, but Will clearly feels his touch here, too. Humming, curious, Hannibal licks his fingers and slides them between the doll's legs again, watching ravenously as Will hardens, stomach tensing as Hannibal touches the doll, and him by proxy.

The doll is unbearably warm here, and Hannibal presses curiously between its legs, surprised when he feels a tiny opening, a hole in the stitching he can work the tip of his finger into. He turns the doll so it's on his lap, pushing its legs open wider, and Will whimpers, wincing as he's forced to spread farther apart, stomach tensing in protest.

Hannibal wets his fingers again, and pushes his forefinger into the hole between the doll's legs, watching Will with his mouth flooded with saliva as Will groans, cock thickening to full hardness, hips lifting just a little as he's penetrated. The doll, on the inside, is full of stuffing, but unbearably warm like a living person. He lets out a shallow breath and curls his finger, and new tears spill from Will's eyes, his stomach bulges as Hannibal curls his finger inside the doll until its belly distends.

He smiles, slowly. Wide enough his cheeks hurt.

Carefully, mindful that while the doll is inanimate, Will is very much alive and capable of being hurt, he slowly pries the hole in the doll wider again, Will gasping and heaving as he works a second finger in. He shoves his fingers in all the way, petting the inside of its stomach and watching as Will's stomach rolls in answer. He twists his fingers, putting his thumb against the seam, rubbing up and down and watching how Will's cock twitches in answer. He continues to rub, pinching the doll mercilessly as Will cries out, wordless and weak, trembling and tense. He comes with a hoarse shout, and Hannibal gasps as he feels the wetness against his thumb.

He rubs his fingers inside the doll, working it up and down his hand as Will groans and shakes for him, his cock spurting again and again as Hannibal forces him to keep coming, overwhelmed with sensation. He lifts the doll and licks over its chest, watching how Will's nipples harden and turn pink, the flush on his chest spreading out all the way down his body. He's sweating and sobbing and looks so beautifully ruined.

Hannibal works a third finger in, and snarls as Will winces, shuddering. Blood is pooling on the rug from his arm and his leg, and now, come slipping down his heaving flanks as Hannibal continues to fuck the doll with his fingers until Will's heavy breathing begins to stutter.

He pulls his fingers out and Will collapses, limply, staring at him. Then, his eyes widen, as Hannibal unzips his pants and pulls his cock free.

He gasps, fists clenching. If he could speak, Hannibal is sure he would be begging. But he can't speak, now, and Hannibal is never one to leave an experiment half-done.

He puts the doll's opening on the tip of his cock, growling as he sees that, if he manages to put his entire cock inside it, and if the proportion holds, Will is going to quite literally feel it in his throat. His smile is cruel and anticipatory.

He wets his palm and slicks his cockhead, spits on the doll's hole, and begins to slowly work it down onto his cock. Warm, dry heat grips him, the doll's cotton-soft stuffing parting for him easily. The plastic of its spine is the only resistance, and he groans, tipping his head back and gripping the doll tight enough to crush it around his cock as he works himself inside.

Will lets out a loud, rough noise, choking. Hannibal opens his eyes and stares at him, smiling wide. The bulge of his cockhead makes Will's belly bulge, and he watches as it moves up, sinks through him, makes his ribs expand. He can feel the rabbit pulse of his heart against his cock. He can feel how Will's lungs try to breathe around it.

He takes the scissors and cuts the doll a mouth, and Will screams, blood and thick, wet stuffing spilling from his mouth. Hannibal growls, working the doll viciously up and down on his cock, able to see his cockhead through the doll's mouth when he bottoms out. Will's body jerks limply along the carpet, chafing and burning and bloody. His eyes are so wet, his tears distort the shape of his iris. A single bead of blood drips out of his nose.

Hannibal comes with a snarl, feeling how Will clenches around him full-body. Come leaks from Will's mouth, milky and pink with blood. He stares, eyes glassy, dark purples blooming all along his body from his abuse. Hannibal sighs, wiping his sweaty brow with his hand, and carefully eases the doll off his cock. A gush of come follows, along with a pink smear.

He smiles.

He reaches in with his fingers until he finds Will's lock of hair, and pulls it out from between the doll's legs. As soon as it's removed, Will surges onto his side with a rattling cry. He sobs, hyperventilating as he's finally allowed to breathe on his own.

Hannibal recovers and tucks himself back in, setting the doll and hair gently down, and goes to his knees in front of Will. He has the scissors in his hand and carefully pulls Will's arm into his lap, clipping the thread from his forearm and pulling each strand free with meticulous care. As he does, Will's eyes close, his body going limp. The bruises fade from his stomach and throat – had Hannibal kept his hair inside the doll, Will would have continued to suffer, but without it, his body is free to shed itself of the magic and heal.

Thank goodness. An experiment that can only be done once is hardly worth doing.

Will's fists clench as he takes his first free, easy breath. His eyes open and he stares up at Hannibal with some heady mix of pain, anger, betrayal, and fear. Hannibal smiles at him, leans down and kisses Will's sweaty hair, petting it from his face. Will flinches from him, panting, but doesn't try to run.

Hannibal carefully pushes him to his back, mourning that, along with all the other marks, his name has faded from Will's thigh. All that remains is a smear of blood. So, too, his body is no longer torn open and bleeding, though he is still very open, not quite recovered in that regard. And, Hannibal notes with pleasure and surprise, he's dripping come, soaked with the blood on his thighs.

He helps Will sit upright. Will winces, and turns his face away when Hannibal tries to kiss him again, so instead he meets Will's cheek. Hannibal hums, and settles on his heels. He can be patient – neither of them knew the extent of this experiment, after all, and he's sure it was overwhelming. He is quite shaken, himself, though much more with satisfaction than the aftermath of abuse.

Will swallows, bares his teeth. "Don't touch me," he rasps. Hannibal releases him immediately, and Will's eyes well with fresh tears. "I felt myself dying by your hand. And you just sat there and smiled."

"We both know I would not let you die, darling," Hannibal replies, softly, but unapologetic.

Will nods. He sucks in a slow breath, fingers flexing. His eyes move, and land on the doll with such a look of venom Hannibal half-expects it to burst into flames. Will swallows again, and turns to meet Hannibal's eyes. He reaches, fingers shaking, and touches Hannibal's cheek.

Hannibal turns his head, cups Will's hand, kisses his palm. Will's lips twitch in a smile, affectionate despite everything. "Let me take care of you," Hannibal murmurs. Will nods, weak and quite literally fucked out. He accepts Hannibal's kiss this time, and Hannibal's chest clenches with satisfaction at the taste of blood and come on Will's tongue. He lets Hannibal help him to his feet and to the bathroom.

Hannibal wakes up unable to move. Will is kneeling across his thighs, the doll in his hand. Hannibal's breathing is even, he couldn't quicken it or hold it if he tried. Will smiles at him, lopsided and viscerally pleased, and leans down to kiss his slack mouth. He rises, and yanks on the doll's hair, and Hannibal gasps as his head snaps back in answer.

He stares up at Will, and sees Will's eyes black as the doll's. But is it not Will's hair inside the thing, now. Will kisses him again, cupping the back of his skull, and wraps his fingers around the doll's neck tight enough that Hannibal feels the pressure against his own throat.

"My turn."


End file.
